


Vollstrecker

by very_mhairi



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blumentrio, Brainwashing, False Memories, German for Zemnian and Gaelic for Infernal, Imprisonment, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Memory Alteration, Mind Control, Mollymauk Tealeaf Lives (technically), Murder, Panic Attacks, Referenced Kidnapping, Short description of a corpse, Spoilers to episode 49, Torture, Vague fascist ideas, Vomit, Widomauk Week 2019, before the story he was resurrected, mind-breaking, okay buckle up y'all, what do you call it when you kill a friend? homiecide.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/very_mhairi/pseuds/very_mhairi
Summary: A wizard is captured by the Empire trying to sneak across the border from Xhorhas, and is delivered home, the one place he never wanted to return. Because of this, the Empire regains its best executioner. Caleb Widogast already knows that he will never see his real family again -- but Bren might.Some very angsty "reunions" for Day 1 of Widomauk Week 2019.





	1. Caleb

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i know this is early, but i'm gonna be out of town for the whole damn week so i'm posting everything i've got done ahead of time. please pay attention to the tags, this is really heavy stuff, and i don't want anybody to be upset by this. anyway, anything else i write for the week will probably be softer, so don't worry, this won't be too much of a trend. german translations at the end! hope you enjoy :)

_Wake_ , echoed a soothing, familiar voice in Caleb’s head, and his eyes shot open with a gasp, disturbed from a slumber he wasn’t even aware he was trapped in.

It took a moment for the groggy daze to leave his mind and allow him to become aware of his surroundings. Cold, heavy, metal chains dug into his wrists and his ankles, keeping him restrained in a simple chair. The room was a meat locker, enough to make goosebumps appear over his skin. His vision was fuzzy, hazy, and he wasn’t sure where he was, what was happening to him, what had happened to him…

At least, until _he_ spoke.

“At last, the stray lamb returns to the flock,” announced the dry, almost amused voice of Trent Ikithon, and Caleb’s head jerked up like he’d been electrocuted. His gaze finally focused, and standing in front of them were the three people he’d never wanted to see again in his life. Astrid and Eodwulf lingered just behind Ikithon, confused, but well-trained, as his old mentor stepped forward, looking over him with disdain. Memories slapped him in the face: he’d split from the Nein once they’d escaped the Ashguard Garrison, trying to sneak back over the border and into the Empire. He knew it was a bad idea, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have dared to break away when he was in the heart of Empire forces, but he did it anyway, drawn by devilish curiosities to peer in on a meeting of those that used to be his superiors. But he was not stealthy, not blessed with the grace of Nott or Jester in times like this, and he was soon stranded in enemy territory with nowhere to go, firing off spell after spell as he was struck with arrows and bolts and then… and then…

He looked up at the Archmage in horror, panic flooding his veins as he fought desperately, nearly jerking his shoulders out of their sockets as he tried to yank himself out of the chains. All he earned was a condescending chuckle, and he watched Astrid murmur something to Eodwulf, pain in her eyes. This was something that had haunted his nightmares for seventeen years. But this wasn’t a dream. He wouldn’t wake up and be with his family, be in the arms of those who loved him the most.

No, this was real.

“No, no, _nein, bitte,_ no, I don’t want this, let me go, _please,_ ” Caleb begged, physically flinching away when Ikithon grabbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger and tutted mournfully. “I am very disappointed in you, Bren. Though it is good to see you, after all this time, even if you’ve grown weak.” He let go of his chin to run his thumb over his cheek, pressing into a weeping wound from a thrown dagger, and pressing harder when he saw how he winced. He let go of him after a moment with a short noise of indifference, wiping his blood on Caleb’s pierced and torn shirt. Caleb’s eyes shot frantically between the three of them, trying to concentrate. “I—I suggest—“ Within an instant, Ikithon snapped his fingers and the magic he’d been gathering on his tongue sputtered out. “I _suggest,_ ” Ikithon hissed back, grabbing Caleb by the throat firmly, making him thrash in place, “that you don’t cast spells anymore, Ermendrud.” He felt the magic in his words take hold, slapping another layer of chains on his wrists, another vice on his throat. Ikithon let go, and he tried to fight the effects, clenching his fists in preparation for what he _knew_ was coming, trying to maintain his concentration. “Let me—” He started, his tongue heavy with his charm, and he screamed with agony at the explosion of white light in his mind. He let out a hopeless sob as his vision cleared again, and he just cursed himself. _You knew, you knew better, you knew better than to do any of this._

“Have you gotten that out of your system now?” Ikithon asked, eyebrows raised with an insufferable smirk that he wanted to carve off of his sickening face. “You know there’s no point, Bren. You don’t need to make this harder than it has to be. We’ve been waiting for so long. You’ve come home, this should be a celebration. And you will have one, once you come back to your senses.” Caleb struggled futilely against the chains outside of his periphery. “I don’t want your—“ Trent held up a hand. “Ah, ah, ah, you know better than that. I know you haven’t forgotten your time with me, Bren, you never would’ve gotten this far without those memories.” Gods, he was trembling pathetically where he sat, partially from cold, but mostly from terror. “You know better. Do not speak unless I tell you to.” He felt the spell lock down on his throat again, and he choked on nothing. “Astrid, Eodwulf. You are dismissed to your duties for the day. Bren and I have a lot to talk about on our own.”

Caleb’s gaze shot to their retreating forms, and he couldn’t help the dread and panic that set in, consuming his mind and his better judgement, knowing any mercy would have come from them. “Don’t, pl—“ He couldn’t even finish before he was writhing in pain again as his punishment burned through his head and his veins.

What was he thinking. He would get no mercy from Ikithon’s favored scourgers, anyway.

Ikithon knew exactly how to break him. He knew the Archmage had the same sharp mind as him (probably one of the reasons why he’d been so fond of Bren at first), and he still remembered from years ago what made him flinch, what made him weep or blubber, what made him screech like a banshee and beg for the pain to stop. “So full of fire,” He hissed low as Caleb spat blood in his face, and he sent electricity arcing through him with a single touch in rebuttal. “It will not last forever. Even the brightest burn out eventually.”

After five hours, six, seven—and enough constant, targeted pain and torment to break his internal clock, at least—Ikithon stepped away, temporarily satisfied. Caleb was not broken, but terribly battered already. He was not mentally weak, which spoke even more to the Archmage’s cruel accuracy that he was so defeated, whimpering and sobbing like a terrified child. “You will stay in here until I decide you may leave.” He said, kicking the chair out from underneath him. He tumbled to the floor like a ragdoll, where his heavy silver chains seemed to have no anchor. _Likely his I_ _mprisonment spell,_ his mind helpfully supplied as it spun. He will never leave.

“ _Aufhören, bitte, nein, bitte…_ ” He rambled under his breath, given the mercy of having already been punished by the geas that day. Ikithon crouched to his level, lifting his head again, wiping at the tears spilling from his bloodshot blue eyes. “This is for your own good, you know.” He said, with some kind of feigned paternal sadness. “ _Ich möchte nach zu Hause gehen,_ ” He mumbled back pathetically, and earned nothing but a heavy sigh.

“You _are_ home, Bren. This is all the home you need.” Trent murmured, pulling away and letting his head fall back to the bloodstained marble floor. “You will learn, in time. Think, for now. Think long and hard about where you are, and I’ll be back tomorrow to come and teach you again.” The cold bit into Caleb’s skin where he lay, and he curled into a ball, quivering and wheezing.

The door closed with a painful slam, and he knew he had nothing left to do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German in this chapter:  
> Bitte - please  
> Nein - no  
> Aufhören - stop  
> Ich möchte nach zu Hause gehen - I want to go home
> 
> Thanks so much to Eileen (steelneena) for beta-ing this chapter! also, the beginning of this chapter was inspired by a wonderful piece by @linzer_art on twitter. (https://twitter.com/linzer_art/status/1132446133781958657)


	2. Bren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master Ikithon has a new test for Bren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two of two! i hope you enjoy. german (and irish gaelic) translations at the end for those who need them.

“I heard Master Ikithon has a test for you today,” Astrid said as she passed Bren in the library. He knew it was still strange for her to see him around Rexxentrum—he’d caught her double takes, her stares. Bren’s cropped hair and smooth robes, always nearly buried in books, hadn’t been seen around in seventeen years, after all, and that was a long time to go without someone. It was easy to forget their face, let love burn out to embers and ash. Of course, it was not impossible to reignite, and the three of them had certainly tried, but it was difficult. They weren’t scared students anymore, they were hardened adult warmages, no longer needing to cling onto each other for warmth or comfort.

Bren certainly didn’t feel the need to cling onto much of anything nowadays, though he saw that as a strength. He’d been very distant since they welcomed him back into their family, and it showed in how he didn’t even bother to look up from his book to speak. “Of course, I’ll be down to see the prisoner in a few minutes.” Astrid sighed, taking a book off the top of his stack, running her scarred fingers over the leather-bound cover. “I don’t understand why he still tests you like this. You are loyal like the rest of us. You were only misguided.”

There was a twinge in Bren’s mind somewhere, a flicker of need to protest. But it died as quickly as it came. “I do not mind. What’s another traitor dead, _ja?_ I am being molded in Master Ikithon’s image. He must make sure that I will not be stolen from our family again.” He said, smoothly and cooly, as he bookmarked a page. He had been weak for so long, brainwashed and broken by Dynasty operatives and traitors. He did not blame his mentor for wanting to make him strong again, and make sure that he would not break under the pressure and go back to living in filth and scum, both literal and in company. The things he had done with some of those… well, _vermin_ while under their influence left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You’re definitely not allowed to leave us again, Bren, you scared me to death.” Astrid gave him a small smile, and this time he actually met her eyes as he stood, putting his small collection back on the shelves beside him. “I know, I know, I will never hear the end of it.” He tucked the bookmarked tome underneath one arm. “Tell Eodwulf I’ll be back for dinner. This will only take a few minutes. We need to discuss that new expedition tonight, you know.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Astrid gave him a soft grin, not the kind of expression one would expect on a woman speaking about planning an assassination. “I will see you then, _spatz._ ” Bren replied, giving her a polite smile in return that did not reach his eyes.

He made his way down the hallways he’d long memorized, down to the basement, where he spoke a quiet word at a dead-end hallway to reach Ikithon’s preferred dungeon. He could already hear snarling and the thrashing of chains in the rooms beyond, and it made his heart race with sick excitement. Another traitor to be put down like a dog, to be made an example of. He was honored to have the opportunity, to be the righteous executioner of the Empire. He was the hand of King Dwendal, he was the sword to carry out his wrath. This was the way he was meant to be.

He was sure of it.

He entered the room where they usually conducted executions, the stone walls scorched and stained, and Ikithon greeted him just beyond the door, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I have a special traitor for you today,” the Archmage’s tone was that of a parent giving a child a new toy. “A murderer, a heretic, and a treasonous deserter. And one of your torturers, Bren. You will finally get your revenge for how they corrupted you.” He waved the hand that was not on his shoulder, and from beyond the door across from him, two guards dragged in a struggling purple tiefling.

The tiefling was very obviously common folk, with his gaudy clothing ratty and torn. He wore a half-shredded white shirt and clashing patterned pants. He was chained at his wrists, ankles, and he wore a collar connected to his tail, rendering him basically immobile. He could see the runes on the collar to keep him from using magic, too. He was covered in tattoos and scars, and his tail and his chipped horns were full of holes for jewelry, and… Bren recognized him. His mind fought for a moment, his brow twitching, as he was flooded with conflicting memories. The traitor looked up at him with solid crimson eyes, a devil’s mark that repulsed him, but that also brought back memories of soft gazes in the firelight, a corpse in the snow, sunlight and laughter and early morning kisses. He was overtaken by the waves for a few moments, left wide-eyed and blinking as he remembered that tiefling’s lips against his, whispered devotions in the dead of night, promises he’d never kept and frankly never planned to. The only thing that shook him from the haze was the broken voice of the traitor himself:

“Caleb?”

_No,_ hissed nearly every fiber of his being, making him flinch backwards. _I am not Caleb Widogast._ But a small part of him clutched at his heart, desperately wanting to go over and kiss him, free him, keep him safe. “Mollymauk Tealeaf,” The name arrived on his lips and he whispered it before he could think. Trent’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “Its name doesn’t matter, Bren. You know what you must do.”

“Caleb, Caleb, _mo chuisle_ , you can’t—” Bren winced as the tiefling was hit over the head and forced to his knees in front of him. He looked so weak, bruised and bloody, likely malnourished. How long had they had him in custody? “ _Please_ , Caleb, don’t do this, I can’t do this again.” He begged, and his memories offered the information that he’d died and been resurrected by the group, and died once before that. There had been plenty of traitors scared to be executed—they were obviously terrified to face the Raven Queen with their betrayals. It had never affected him before now, but now he hesitated at the horror in the tiefling’s eyes, how he trembled under his blank gaze.

“Do it,” Ikithon hissed over his shoulder, and the guards cleared the room. “It deserves it. Remember what it did to you?” Bren did remember, or at least he thought he did. He had vivid memories of how the tiefling broke him, crushed his heart under his heel with the rest of their group when he asked to return to his home. How they abandoned him at the border for daring to disrespect them, and for becoming too powerful. The tiefling told him that he’d never loved him, not truly. He remembered it. Why did he look at him with those heartbroken eyes? It must be devil’s tricks. It must be. Ikithon would not lie to him. Ikithon rescued him, took care of him, made him strong after they had broken him down and weakened him.

“Caleb,” Molly sobbed, tear tracks cutting through layers of dirt on his soft skin. He remembered caressing his cheek, kissing down his jaw, leaving evidence of his adoration on his neck, beneath where his collar laid now. He remembered claws across his chest, he remembered snarled devil’s tongue. He didn’t know what to think. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find you, I love you, please, my darling, please don’t do this, I don’t want to die.” It was pathetic. It was heartwrenching. It made him sick. It tore him apart at the seams. His hands were trembling, and he’d barely noticed. “I…” He started, his mouth dry, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break out of his chest or simply shatter under the pressure. Trent’s fingernails dug into the skin of his shoulder now, a constant pinch and ache. “If you cannot do this for me, Bren, I will be disappointed in you. You know what happens when you disappoint me.” He froze in fear. He knew exactly what would happen when he disappointed Trent—it meant nights alone in confinement, experiments and torture, punishment he deserved for disappointing the Empire. He couldn’t take it. He wouldn’t take it.

Bren raised his quivering palm towards the tiefling, his other hand in his component pouch, and he watched as he tried to squirm away, terrified of the power under his skin. _That’s right_ , a voice inside him whispered. _They are scared of you. That was why they made you weak and cast you out. They are nothing but cowards. This one is, too._ His hand began to blacken, knowing tieflings were resistant to his flames but also knowing he was too weak for it to matter, and Molly screamed his old name, thrashing and fighting for his life. His fingers smoldered, but his shaking was so bad now that he could barely aim. The traitor needed to die. The traitor had to die. Mollymauk had to die. Mollymauk…

“I… I can’t.” The words clawed out of his tight throat, and he wheezed a breath of relief, hoping he would just be punished, and someone would do the job for him. But Trent did not release him. He growled, grabbed him by the front of his robes, and looked him in the eyes. “You will.”

The magic swept over him before he could even think, and soon his body was moving without his permission. Trent released him and he could hear the command echo through his mind: _destroy the traitor._

He could not control himself as his hand left his component pouch and joined the other, both hands blackening and lighting with white-hot embers before a maelstrom of smoke and fire erupted from his palms, blocking his vision of the entire room until Trent released him from his spell, leaving him with nothing but the sharp smell of burning flesh and Mollymauk’s screams. He was dizzy with shock and the smoke in his lungs. The air cleared and he barely got one look at the body before he was heaving the day’s meals onto the dungeon floor, falling to his knees and vomiting up his shame and grief. “ _Nein, nein, bitte, das ist nur ein traum, das ist nicht real, bitte, nein…_ ” He wheezed, the room spinning, his chest seizing, his throat burning. “ _Das ist nicht real,_ oh God."Molly’s wails echoed in his mind, and he brought his hands to his ears, like he could block out the sounds trapped in his head. He could still hear them, though. He could still hear as the charred and blistered body was dragged away, and he could still hear as Ikithon walked and stood in front of him. “This is real, Bren.”

“No, _please—_ ” He begged no one, nails digging into the sides of his head. It happened again. All he could think about was Molly. Molly, reading fortunes. Molly, breaking into a hospital with him. Molly, having a drinking contest. Molly, kissing him. Molly, holding him through a nightmare. Molly, smiling, laughing. Molly, restrained and battered. Molly, begging for his life. It bubbled up in his chest, his throat, it tried to consume him, it was too much, it was all too much, _he murdered Mollymauk Tealeaf._

He screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German translations:  
> Spatz - sparrow (term of endearment)  
> Bitte - please  
> Nein - no  
> Das ist nur ein traum - this is a dream  
> Das ist nicht real - this is not real
> 
> Irish Gaelic translations:  
> mo chuisle - my pulse (term of endearment)
> 
> so there's day 1! i'm not really sure how many days i'm going to be able to get in for wm week, since i'm super busy atm. but it's a start! come chat with me @very_mhairi on twitter or in the widomauk discord under the same name. comments and kudos make my day, if you liked the piece :)


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